Whose sacred balm, o’er all things shed,
Revives the weak, the old renews,
And crowns with votive wreaths the dead.
7. Once more the cuckoo’s call I hear;
I know, in many a glen profound,
The earliest violets of the year
Rise up like water from the ground.
8. The thorn I know once more is white;
And, far down many a forest dale,
The anemones in dubious light